The Light and the Dark of It
by FinnFiona
Summary: A series of vignettes scattered throughout the year encompassed by the Deathly Hallows, inspired by 100 songs from the Beatles anthology. On permanent HIATUS.
1. Yesterday

**A/N: I promise I'm still working on Seconds, but I needed a little distraction to keep the creative juices flowing, so I hope you'll indulge me in this. On something of a side note, I don't think that knowledge of the songs are necessary—so don't be dissuaded—but it might add another layer if you do. At any rate, please let me know what you think with a review!**

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_Yesterday_

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They sat around the modest fire, each lost in their own thoughts. If it weren't for the flicker of the blue flames before them, Ron would have been sure time wasn't moving forward at all.

And yet it was all happening so quickly. One minute, happy—at his brother's wedding… Everything was easy, indeterminate—trouble lay ahead, yes, but it was distant. And now… Now, they were tired and scared and it was all too real.

Ron watched Harry for a moment and could see he was brooding over something. He would assume the Horcruxes, but there was something else… Ron sighed, knowing his sister probably figured in there somewhere. With this recognition came unbidden thoughts of home—but home… Was there a home there, still? Was Ginny even safe? Were any of them?

Were they?

Ron forced his mind back to the moment, to the only things he knew for certain. His eyes naturally came to rest on the girl sitting next to him, her own eyes unfocused on some distant reflection.

A few days ago, Ron would have been grinning easily, following one of his secret book's directives to charm his chosen witch. His hand itched to find its place on her shoulder—a place he'd finally admitted meant something more to him, something important. But could he? Was it wrong, somehow, when they were here…? Doing… doing _this_?

As it was, Ron couldn't stop his arm from stretching out tentatively, his fingers just barely brushing the hem of her shirt. She jumped, and fixed him with a quizzical gaze. Ron shrunk back, muttering something about a pestering insect. He hated himself for his uncertainty, his insecurity. She just smiled sadly, and turned back to the fire.

With a glance at her watch, she stood, sending a shiver through Ron as her warmth left his side. As he watched her enter the tent, he longed to follow her. He longed for a time when it was easy, longed for a time when their lives weren't qualified by fear and duty and impossibility.

He drew his knees under his chin, and longed for a time when he'd be holding her instead.


	2. I've Got a Feeling

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_I've Got a Feeling_

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"You really didn't have to come see me off," Ginny said admonishingly, her eyes betraying her true feelings as she moved from Molly to the twins. "I'm sure I could have made it on the train without you two."

Fred grinned—he could always see through her brave faces. Not that she wasn't tough as dragon's hide, but she was worried—beyond worried, he knew. "Have a good term, yea?" he said with a crooked grin, hugging her tight. "I have a good feeling about this year—everything's going to right itself soon, you'll see."

Ginny looked him in the eye for a moment, a hint of desperation shining through—yet she kept her smile plastered on as she went to hug George as well.

"Keep your chin up," George said softly, catching her jaw with his finger as she pulled back.

"Always," she replied.

They'd waved until the train disappeared from sight and promised Molly multiple times to come round for dinner before ambling back toward Diagon Alley.

"Why'd you lie?" George asked into the silence that had prevailed over the last few blocks. "To Ginny," he added, "about this year."

"Who says I lied?" Fred asked, confused.

"You really think it's going to be a good one?" George asked skeptically, sidestepping a rubbish bin on the sidewalk.

"I didn't say that—but I do think it'll be alright, in the end," Fred replied. "When'd you get to be such a pessimist? You sound like Mum," he smirked.

"Do not," George said mulishly, absently rubbing the spot where his ear used to be. It was that action—more than anything else—that could put a rock cake in the pit of Fred's stomach. He couldn't help but remember how frightened he'd been that night—more scared than when his Dad or Bill were in the hospital, even. George had been cracking jokes, but Fred just… couldn't even think straight.

"Do too," he forced a grin, pulling a galleon from George's good ear. _Getting better at these Muggle magic tricks_, he thought, satisfied as the momentary distraction loosened the knots in his chest. He wasn't going down that road again. It wasn't him. It wasn't _them_. He tossed the coin in the air and smiled as George caught it without missing a beat. "At least they had a good time last year," he persisted.

"What, you mean before the end of it said 'sod off' and pulled us all over the deep end? That year?" George scoffed.

"Before all _that_, you git," Fred replied lightly, determined to keep afloat—and George with him, if he could help it. Only one down at a time and only down with each other—that was their unspoken rule.

_You broke the rules when George was hurt._

Fred cursed inwardly as his stomach tightened again. "I'm just saying I have a feeling, is all."

George nodded, silently flipping the galleon back. Fred caught it, feeling the smile return to his face.

The pair continued on, sending the coin sailing between them every so often as the cobbles echoed their passing feet.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading—please let me know what you thought with a review!**


	3. You Never Give Me Your Money

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_You Never Give Me Your Money_

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"I like him," Ted said matter-of-factly as he slid under the duvet.

"You would," Andromeda muttered darkly, sitting resolutely against the headboard.

"You don't?" Ted responded, his slightly raised eyebrows and good-natured grin staring frustratingly up at his wife.

Andromeda simply crossed her arms and straightened her back as much as she could.

"You've never had a problem with him before," Ted persisted. "Always said he seemed like a perfectly nice man."

"The very fact that I should have an opinion of him outside of being our daughter's love interest—the fact that I've known him in passing, at least, for _ages_," Andromeda sputtered, aware she wasn't making her point properly. "He's hardly much younger than you and I, Ted," she said with a breath.

"Does that really matter?" Ted asked.

His nonchalance was really driving Andromeda to drink.

"Sirius liked him," Ted pointed out.

"And he always employed such impeccable judgment," Andromeda scoffed.

"You were his favorite cousin, he can't have been completely off," Ted grinned.

Andromeda refused to so much as quirk a corner of her mouth in return.

"What's really bothering you, Meda?" Ted asked quietly, reaching out to touch her wrist.

Andromeda allowed herself to soften somewhat at his touch—she loved it when he used that name. It was theirs, only theirs. Everyone else called her Dromeda or Andy—her family especially… She grimaced, her _family_...

"I just don't want our daughter's life to be any more difficult than it already is," she said at last. "Is that so terrible?"

"Of course not," he answered slowly, moving the hand up to her shoulders. "But what makes you think it will be?"

"I don't know…" she mumbled, though of course she did. "The prejudice, the money… the war…"

Ted sighed, drawing his hand back and contemplating his fingers for a moment. "This isn't going to be like it was with your family," he said finally.

Andromeda's throat constricted—he could always read her so well.

"And they're better off than we were—they have us, and good people around them… And besides, we turned out alright, didn't we?" Ted asked, turning his head to search her face.

Andromeda reached her long fingers out to wrap his hand in hers, meeting his eyes earnestly. "I didn't mean…" she began.

"I know," Ted cut her off softly. "But you saw how miserable she was last year… if life is going to be hard, wouldn't you rather her spend it with someone she loves, and who obviously loves her?"

"Yes," Andromeda answered, voice slightly husky. _Yes_, she thought fervently, inching closer to her husband.

"She's a good kid," Ted said with a smile, pulling her under his arm. "Trust her judgment."

Andromeda nodded, head already nestled against his shoulder. "I do," she whispered. "I do…"

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**Author's Note: Thanks, as always, for reading! As I've mentioned before, knowing the songs aren't necessary but this one might be worth a listen… At any rate, this couple is rather a departure for me, so I'd appreciate knowing what you thought with a review!**


	4. ObLaDi, ObLaDa

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

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"I think we should leave the Burrow," Arthur said abruptly into the darkness.

"What?" Molly answered quickly as she rolled onto her side, revealing that she, too, had been lying awake.

"After what happened today…" Arthur faltered. He still didn't entirely know _what_ had happened today, the details were being clamped down upon—tightly. "If I'm being investigated—it's… it's not safe here," he finished quietly.

"What's to say it'll be any safer elsewhere?" Molly pointed out. "This is our _home_, Arthur."

"Home or not, it isn't safe," Arthur repeated with a resolve he didn't truly feel. "Will you pack up a few things tomorrow? We should travel light… We'll leave when I get home from work," he said, resisting the urge spit out the word. He could hardly call it 'work' anymore… Muggle relations in the Ministry these days was a joke…

"Just like that?" Molly asked, voice rising slightly. "You've made the executive decision?"

Arthur broke his gaze from the ceiling, mouth half open in response only to find that Molly had already turned her back. Sighing, he too turned away, counting the proverbial sheep until he finally fell asleep.

Arthur woke a few hours later as a chill crept over his thin frame. It didn't take him long to realize it was Molly's warmth that was missing from the bed. Pulling himself out from under the quilt and into a dressing gown, he slowly made his way down the stairs. He soon found his wife nestled at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a stack of albums at her side.

Coming to stand behind her, Arthur couldn't help but smile at the photo Molly was deftly running a finger over.

"Do you remember when this was taken?" she asked softly, voice trembling with unshed tears.

"Of course," Arthur replied as he gazed down at a younger Molly, beaming with a newborn Bill in her arms. Arthur stood at her side, his own smile just as wide. The then newly purchased Burrow stood behind them, not quite as tall or precarious as it was now.

"Fabian took it," she went on, a tear finally sliding unbidden down her cheek. "He and Gideon were so happy for us… Almost as happy as we were," she smiled sadly.

Arthur considered his wife and the photograph. "I'm sorry I was so… commanding, before," he said at last. "But I'm scared for us, Molly," he admitted honestly, unable to meet her eyes as she turned to face him.

"I know," she said after a moment, surprising her husband. He had expected more of an argument, considering…

Instead, Molly flipped the page, a small laugh escaping at the sight that met her. Arthur couldn't help but join her. "It was definitely a mistake to give the twins that camera," he chuckled as they went through page after page of Weasley exploits.

"Ron still goes red at this one," Molly said, pointing to a panicked 6 year old unearthing a spider in his crumpet.

"Put him off the things for months," Arthur recalled as they opened a new album. This one was full of birthdays spent in the back garden, the kids in full-fledged de-gnoming mode, an adventuresome trip to the village market… The pair was soon laughing heartily at the memories they unearthed.

The laughter died down as they finished with the last set of photos. "I don't think I can leave this place," Molly whispered.

"Molly…" Arthur said seriously. "It's not the place that's important."

"I know," she said, almost crossly. "But I don't _know_ anything else anymore… I'm afraid that if we leave, I'll lose everything that happened here. I know it doesn't make any sense…" she trailed off sheepishly.

"It makes more sense than you think," Arthur said with a small smile, tilting her chin up with a long finger. "I promise we'll protect the house as best we can… But I can't protect us or the kids by staying here."

"_We_ can't protect," Molly corrected.

"_We_," Arthur agreed with a small smile, as a light wind from the open window blew one of the books open to a new page. He closed his eyes briefly as he recognized the photo of Gideon and Fabian shortly before their death. They looked so much like their nephews… "Life has a way of correcting course if we just keep moving forward," Arthur added contemplatively.

Molly turned back to the table and her now cold tea. "I suppose you're right," she said quietly. "I'll put together a few things…"

"Thank you," Arthur whispered, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"I want to take these with us," Molly added, pulling down another album.

"Okay," Arthur readily agreed. "Oh…" he breathed as Molly opened to a page where Arthur was proudly waxing the old Ford Anglia, "I miss that car."

"I'll bet you do," Molly said sternly, but she was unable to hide her grin. Before they knew it, they were laughing again, relishing whatever time they could have in this place, reliving the moments that had transpired again and again and again…

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**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updates, I've been trying to devote any spare time to finishing up Seconds, but I should have more time to work on this in the future.**

**At any rate, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


	5. Your Mother Should Know

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_Your Mother Should Know_

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When Hermione was little, she'd snuck her Mum's book club novels into her room at night and read them cover to cover, over and over again. She had loved them all, especially the ones with a brave and clever hero who triumphed against all odds.

The thing about these heroes, Hermione now realized, is that they were so often on their own. They weren't simply independent, loner-types—they were quite often separated from their families or just outright orphans. In the books, this just made them all the more worthy. Look, ladies and gentlemen, at what they had accomplished—and unaided!

Now, standing behind her friend in a cold and empty cemetery, Hermione was starting to reevaluate her childhood fantasies.

Sure, going it alone was admirable—but it was also foolish. More than that, though, Hermione had begun to realize that these novels she had loved so much never really stopped to consider how the hero felt about this—this solitude, this utter lack of family, of guidance?

Did this make him brave, or just scared?

Harry was a hero; Hermione knew that even if he would never admit it. His story was textbook… wasn't it?

The hero seeks advice from a long-dead father, asks for direction from a mother lost among the stars. The hero emerges stronger, better, ready to go forward.

Watching Harry now, though, Hermione wondered at how this didn't overwhelm him completely—how it hadn't already. But maybe it was, and maybe it had been all along. Because this broken reaction—Harry's reaction, however much he may want to hide it—it wasn't the hero's reaction, was it? This wasn't how the story unfolded.

Hermione read Lily Potter's name etched in the marble and thought how wrong this was. Hermione's hand in his, her words of comfort, they weren't the same—they weren't good enough. How she would give anything for Lily to be here—to be a real, living, breathing person. A mother.

That was what Harry needed, not some supposedly transformative experience. He shouldn't have to seek help this way. He shouldn't have to be alone.

For once, Hermione accepted that books may have deceived her. They caught her up in this romantic notion of the hero and his quest, of his lonesome drive to win. Strength out of adversity, right?

Maybe so, she thought, but living it… it was _hard_.

Without the hero's story, Harry wouldn't be Harry, and they wouldn't be here. Lily would be more than an image, more than empty words on a tombstone.

But this was it, this was reality. It _shouldn't_ be, but it was.

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**Author's Note: A little different, perhaps, but it seemed to fit the sentiment. And of course, many thanks to Steph for your advice! **

**Please let me know what you thought with a review!**


	6. Dear Prudence

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_Dear Prudence_

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The carriage is rattling over the cobbles somewhere beneath their feet, pulled by otherworldly steeds that only some can see.

For her part, Padma Patil hardly notices any of it. At this moment, she is simply concentrating on her breathing—lungs fill and empty, fill… and empty. Fill…

"…Pad…? Padma?" a voice reaches through her inner mantra. Empty… fill, and empty… "Are you listening, Padma?" she recognizes the voice as belonging to Terry Boot, seated next to her in this small box lurching towards what was once a warm and inviting castle, but was now…

Fill… and empty.

"Sorry," she tries to smile at all of their expectant faces, Terry and Michael and Anthony—her boys… She missed them so, over the summer. "I guess I wandered off," she adds weakly.

Padma catches Anthony's small frown but focuses gratefully on Michael's response. "We were just talking about the teams—who d'you think will be Hufflepuff's captain this year?"

"I don't know, who were you thinking?" she asks, skillfully turning the conversation back away from her—as she's been doing all day. It was much easier to let them go on during the train ride if that's what they wanted to do, but if she lets her mind stray too far… she thinks she might lose control entirely. And so _fill_…

The carriage stops with an almighty lurch and the boys clamber outside, still discussing the year's Quidditch lineups.

But Padma's legs feel as though they've been hit with a jelly-legs jinx and she isn't moving.

"Aren't you coming?" Anthony asks, sticking his head back around the doorway. Padma can only shake her head in response, she can't think, she can't—_fill… and empty…_

Anthony's face disappears for a moment. "Oi!" she hears him call, and the somewhat distant voices of Michael and Terry cut off entirely as Anthony scrambles back into the coach next to Padma. He's still looking concerned as their friends climb back into the opposite seat and Michael shuts the door.

"What's wrong, Pad?" Terry asks, gentle but to the point. "There's no point hiding it now, we've suspected all day."

"You're not that good of an actress, I'm afraid," Michael says with that winning smile that makes Padma feel just the slightest bit better, in spite of herself.

"I…" she starts, surprised to find her throat so dry. "I can't go in there," she says quietly, feeling the anxiety rise once more in her chest. Fill…

…And empty.

"Into Hogwarts?" Terry says, "But you've always loved school."

Padma just keeps her lips pressed firmly together and shakes her head.

"Should we go get Parvati?" Michael asks, more to the others than to Padma herself.

"No!" Padma's eyes shoot up along with her voice. All three boys jump slightly at her outburst—it's almost comical, or would be if Padma wasn't so near hysterics of another variety. "Sorry," she says with a half-hearted quirk of mouth, "I know I'm acting like a permanent resident of St. Mungo's…" which at least makes Michael and Terry grin a bit. "But Parvati is… well, she's the Gryffindor, yea? She was the one that convinced our parents to let us come back last year…"

"Did you not want to come back _this_ year?" asks Anthony, who has been pensively silent since the carriage door closed.

Padma looks at him sympathetically, thinking she detects something behind his otherwise inscrutable expression. "Not because of you," she says quietly, "I wanted to see all of you, of course," she adds, turning to the group at large. "Besides," she grits her teeth bitterly, "it's not as though we had a choice, did we? Pure blood status confirmations and mandatory attendance… This is _not_… It's not…"

Empty, empty, empty… and _fill_.

Michael's eyes are slightly wide as Padma's breathing gets shorter and Anthony, as if out of desperation, reaches out for her hand. She takes it gratefully, hating herself for bringing them down with her. "You can't tell me you all aren't worried, after everything that's been happening?" she almost pleads.

The boys exchange a glance before Terry lets out a heavy sigh. "Of course we are…"

"Why do you think we've been chattering on like a bunch of first year girls all day?" Michael adds ruefully.

Padma chuckles morosely, oddly relieved to know they aren't as carefree as they've been acting. If she'd been more observant—if she was in any condition to be—she would have known that long before this moment… "Did you all see the paper this morning?" she almost whispers, finally starting the conversation she'd been both dreading and fixating upon all day.

"Snape--_Headmaster_!" Anthony practically spits, as if he's been bursting with the idea all day.

"A more likely Death Eater there never was," Terry says darkly. "And who are these Carrows?"

"My Dad wasn't too pleased to read their names," Michael offers. "_They're_ trying to take over the school, I reckon," he adds meaningfully.

"That's what I'm afraid of…" Padma admits in an undertone.

"Well it doesn't change anything," Terry shrugs, "I'll be hexed if I'm going to let them deprive me of my education. Besides, we can do more from the inside…" he lowers his voice, "like with the DA…?"

"And we're Ravenclaws," Michael says with a brave smile, "it's our duty to bring a little brains to the operation."

There's an appreciative laugh around the carriage.

"_And_ we're prefects," Anthony addresses Padma, "we can't just abandon our responsibilities…"

"Don't you see?" Padma nearly cries, struggling to keep her voice down. "Prefects won't matter any more… it's going to be bad, I know it. It already is, everywhere else—Hogwarts isn't immune to that anymore. Not since Dumbledore…"

"Padma…" Anthony tries, but she crosses her arms over her chest.

"No, I'm not backing down from this, I'm not just going to say it's all _fine_ when it's not," she glares around the coach, dimly surprised that confronting the very thing that has tied her stomach in knots for days and weeks—actually letting herself discuss it instead of ignoring it—well, she isn't thinking about her breathing anymore.

"We're not asking you to, Pad," Terry replies—he's never been afraid to stand up to her.

"We're just asking you to get out of the carriage and come eat some dinner," Michael adds, a bit slowly—carefully.

"But haven't you put it together?" Padma insists, talking quickly. "The Ministry, the _Prophet_, all these bloody changes… now Hogwarts… they're _out_ for Harry Potter at the very least—and I _checked_ maybe one hundred times and Hermione Granger hasn't been on the lists of Muggle-borns who've submitted for interrogation. And did you _see_ Ginny Weasley on the train?" Padma winces as Michael looks down, but plows forward, "her brother, Ron, wasn't with her. Parvati says Ginny claims he's sick with spattergroit, but I don't know… it can't be a coincidence," she finishes, taking her first truly deep breath of the day.

The boys are all staring at her now, and Padma feels her cheeks redden somewhat at their shocked expressions.

"Merlin, Pad…" Anthony breathes, turning his attention to the small window, where the light was slowly fading. Terry's brow is furrowed as if over a particularly difficult set of runes. Michael leans forward, chin in his hands.

A moment passes before Terry's expression becomes somewhat less cloudy, and he clears his throat. "We ought to go into the feast before someone comes looking for us."

"Right," Michael says, straightening. "Look, Padma, we're right here with you, alright? But we can't live in this carriage until the Christmas hols."

"I suppose not," Padma admits, smiling sheepishly, already feeling a bit silly—though not too much, because she knows how important this is… how _right_ she unfortunately is.

"There's that smile," Michael grins, seeking silent approval before opening the carriage door to the cooling air.

"We can do this," Terry tells Padma seriously as he climbs after Michael, "no matter who's sitting at the staff table or skulking beyond the gates."

Padma takes another steadying breath as Anthony makes to follow. Thinking she's ready now is one thing, actually willing herself to move is another… Fill… and empty…

Anthony turns back after stepping out onto the gravel. "It's turning into a beautiful night…" he says enticingly. Padma offers a wan smile. Anthony looks nervous for a moment, shuffling his feet slightly. "A beautiful night for a beautiful girl," he says softly, uncertainly, as he holds out a tentative hand.

Padma notices a pleasant flutter in the pit of her stomach that has nothing to do with the stress she's been feeling all day. "You're not so bad yourself," she says, biting her lip as a wide smile stretches unbidden across her features.

Anthony smiles back as she takes his hand, finally abandoning her seat in the now empty carriage for the very full night.

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**Author's Note: So! Sorry for the delay in posting… I had a hard time with this one, I must say—never having tackled these characters before. Perhaps that's also why it's a bit longer than usual—not sure whether or not that's a good thing!**

**I have to thank Dodger Gilmore for the inspiration on this—she's really doing amazing things with these minor characters, you should all give her stories a look!**

**At any rate, thanks for reading—please let me know what you thought with a _review_!**


	7. Long, Long, Long

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_Long, Long, Long_

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"I can't sleep," came a somewhat raspy voice, startling Hermione where she sat at her entrance to the tent. She turned to find Harry staring down at her. "Why don't you turn in early?" he added, "I'll keep watch."

Hermione looked at him skeptically. "Are you sure that's a good idea…?" she asked carefully, thinking he could use all the sleep he could get, as much of a fog as he'd been in since escaping from the Lovegoods' a week previous.

"I'm sure," he said shortly, making Hermione's muscles involuntarily tense. Ever since his burst of excitement upon learning of the Hallows, he'd retreated further into himself—Hermione was waiting for him to snap, but it wasn't coming…

"Fine," she agreed half-heartedly, not having the energy for an argument. She stood slowly as Harry plopped into the tent entrance, moodily twirling the blackthorn wand, eyes already unfocused on some distant vista.

Hermione crawled into her bunk, not bothering to undress, and curled onto her side. Shivering with the cold, she absently cast a warming charm over her blanket, but it didn't seem to help. She must have lay there for an hour, she thought, unable to fall asleep.

Frustrated, she lay there, shaking from head to toe, clutched into herself. She tried to tell herself it was just the miserable weather, but she knew there were more to these tremors than cold. She felt as though her body was quaking from the inside out, threatening to break her open with one last violent shudder. Hermione felt her heartbeat quicken apprehensively as she mustered all of her willpower to simply lay still.

Yet the reprieve only lasted a moment before she was shaking again. Biting her lip angrily as unbidden, anxious tears sprung to the corners of her eyes, she climbed heavily from the bed, eliciting a sleepy grunt from Ron below her.

She turned to face him upon reaching the floor, still wrapped tightly in her blanket, enviously watching him sleep.

She hated him.

Or at least… she wanted to hate him. Or thought she _should _want to, after what he'd done.

But the hate was just one layer of everything else going through her mind and heart. It was confusing her, truth be told, and she didn't fancy feeling so unsure.

Once, when she was rather little, she'd gotten terribly angry with her father—she didn't even remember why, now. Looking back on it still turned her cheeks pink with shame, for she had said some awful things. For the only time in her life, she had told her father she hated him. She could still see the look on his face quite clearly, smiling sadly as he told her, _'Well, if you still care enough to hate me, then I suppose we're doing alright…'_

That was the thing with Ron—Hermione knew that it wouldn't hurt this much if she didn't still care. Much as she didn't want to, much as she knew she deserved to be furious… it was exhausting. And if it took so much energy to be angry, to ignore him and push him away, then how upset could she really be?

Hermione glanced at the tent entrance to make sure Harry hadn't noticed her get up before turning her attention back to the boy in front of her, closing her eyes as another tremor coursed through her veins.

She kept trying to reason that if it weren't for their situation, if it wasn't for the fact that she had no choice but to be here, she'd have a much easier time hating him… But she knew that wasn't entirely true, because she also…

_No_, she admonished herself, unwilling to entertain the idea that she could feel anything else towards him—_him_—he had betrayed her, done everything she'd feared and more.

Yet she had listened to his explanations—how he'd tried to return, the strange magic of the Deluminator… her voice that had brought him back. She wanted to believe him—a fact which aggravated her even more.

She found herself kneeling by the bedside, inches from his slumbering form, searching his face for some sort of answer. She just wanted to know what to do, what to feel…

Because then there was the locket… That blasted, bloody locket. Hermione knew—and Ron knew, much to her surprise—that it didn't entirely excuse him, but she couldn't stop her mind from going back to it. She knew it was powerful, and though it didn't exercise its abilities in as overt a way as the diary had, she also knew it was influencing them—that much was clear.

But why had it affected Ron so? Why him? Was he was weaker in some way, or somehow more susceptible to the locket's manipulation through some quirk or flaw in his character?

Hermione had spent so much of her time in the past months wracking her brains for answers, for the proper way to put the puzzle of the Horcruxes together, that it had taken her awhile to recognize that there was a similar force—a similar _intent_—to plot, to plan, to discover, residing within that golden frame. And once Ron left, she sometimes thought she detected a malicious glee pervade her senses when she was wearing the locket. It made her feel sick.

Perhaps the locket—that little piece of malevolent soul—had simply found the easiest way to break all three of them: Ron.

Hermione could see that now, how much she and Harry benefited from Ron's presence. But even more than that, she could see how much she needed Ron here, much as it pained her to do so. She didn't just need anyone—she needed _him_, she needed Ron. Even more so now that Harry was frightening her with this new attitude of his, this obsession…

And now that Ron was back, a part of her—when she deigned to stop ignoring it—could see that he was sorry, could tell that something had changed… he was trying so very hard, especially with the way Harry was acting…

And how many times had she let Harry lose his temper? How many times had she just written it off?

But this was different, a small voice reminded her—Harry didn't _leave_.

Her throat hurt as she clamped down on another wave of unfocused emotion. She wanted _closure_, she wanted a decision—anything. _Just tell me what I ought to think…_

Ron shifted onto his side just then, and she was almost startled to see the expression upon his face—not the usual abandon that marked his sleeping features, but a deep and profound anguish…

Still uncertain, and still shaking, she reached a hand out to nudge his shoulder carefully.

She jumped back as he woke with a start, automatically reaching for his wand before recognizing her. "'ermione?" he asked blearily, "is something wrong?"

"I'm cold," she said simply, hardly knowing where she was going with this, why she had suddenly felt the need to wake him, why she wanted to talk to him, now.

She had to fight back a smile as he made to pull his blanket off and hand it to her. "No," she said, careful to keep her voice down, holding out her hands to stop him, "er… body heat is more… efficient."

Ron's brow knitted together sleepily.

"So budge up," she said, careful to keep her voice even—unattached.

Eyebrows coming even closer together, Ron dutifully slid to the far side of the small bunk, resting his back against the tent wall. Hermione slid in onto her back, tucking her blanket around her.

"This doesn't mean I've forgiven you," she said, adopting a haughty tone, as she closed her eyes.

"Good," came Ron's voice beside her.

Hermione's eyes shot open, but Ron had already closed his own, settling into the pillow. "I haven't forgiven me, either," he murmured, "don't reckon I will…"

Hermione stared at him for a moment, but his steady breathing told her he'd already slipped back into sleep. She turned her head back to the bunk above them, more conflicted than ever.

And yet, she could feel her muscles relaxing, putting whatever stress and anxiety that had been plaguing her at bay. Even without his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, or her hand in his as they slept side by side, this felt just familiar enough. She resisted the urge to move any closer to Ron on the narrow mattress, and allowed her eyes to drift closed once more.

She would be up and back in her bed before Harry came to wake Ron for his shift at the watch, and she'd try to sort everything out with… _this_… tomorrow.

But for now, she would settle for just being _still_, all tremors forgotten in pure and certain sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note: Much as I love Ron, I'm not trying to make apologies for him here—but Hermione obviously started the process of forgiving him at some point, and I think she's too over-analytical not to have agonized over it many, many times—though I'm not sure she ever realized when she'd come to a conclusion. This song just fit too perfectly in my mind not to try to tackle those issues. So I hope it worked—please let me know what you thought!**


	8. Revolution

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

**

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**

_Revolution_

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It must have been an hour before Draco could drag himself off the floor, knees adjusting tremulously to supporting his weight. Steadying himself against the abusively white porcelain of the sink, he took in his reflection in the mirror.

The weakness he saw etched into his own ashen features disgusted him. He hated Mudbloods and Muggles alike. Even half-bloods were beneath him. Impure in more ways than one, the lot of them. What did he care if he had to torture one or two?

And yet almost from the very start, his body had rebelled against the task, regardless of the orders his own mind—much less his father, or aunt, or the Dark Lord himself—was issuing. But he'd stomached it as well as he could, hoping he would grow into the habit as he had grown into his prejudices.

But murder… that was something altogether different.

The way His Lordship had tricked him into it, that first time—slipping so carelessly, the most sinister of presences, into Draco's subconscious mind… A very subtle Imperius, raising Draco's wand, placing the fatal words on his tongue, then pulling away before Draco's brain had a chance to reassert control. The answering green light and the lifeless body at his feet were like being burned alive and doused with the iciest of water in dizzying succession.

He hadn't been able to kill the old fool Headmaster, how could he be expected to take the life of someone so seemingly unimportant and even more defenseless?

Draco clenched his jaw firmly, pushing all troubling, heretical thoughts from his mind in an effort to quell what little conscience he still appeared to possess. He set out for the kitchen, unsure of what tonic he desired, but knowing he needed something to dull the aching in his chest.

Opening the familiar oaken cabinet, Draco fingered the aged bottle of Merman Mettlebrook's Quality Rum thoughtfully. It was already half empty with all too recent use. As he ran his thumb over the cap, Draco already knew he'd have to forgo this particular treat. His father had the measure of it too carefully of late to risk taking even a drop.

And Draco needed much more than a drop.

It was then that Draco noticed the quiet, but insistent tapping at the window. Feigning boredom as was his practice, regardless of his nonexistent audience, Draco carefully undid the latch at the sill, his wand held somewhat lazily at the ready.

He was relieved to recognize Blaise Zabini's owl as it fluttered into the room, alighting deftly on highly polished counter. He removed the scroll of parchment from its leg, fumbling slightly in his heightened anticipation. The stately bird flew out the window without waiting for a response.

Draco unsealed the letter quickly, scanning its contents. It was brief—they had never been much for correspondence, after all. Draco wasn't even sure he would call Zabini a friend, per say…

Did he even have any friends?

Nevertheless, it was the last line that interested him most:

_You sound as though you could stand to take the edge off a bit. You know what to do… ~Z_

Draco let out a pent up breath, slipping into a nearby chair with relief. He silently praised Zabini's ability to read between the lines. It wasn't as though Draco could just ask for what he needed outright—the last thing he wanted was for more undesirable attention to be directed at his family.

Spreading the parchment flat across the kitchen table, Draco placed his wand carefully on the stretch of empty paper at the bottom of the note. He muttered the familiar incantation that Zabini had crafted so long ago to hide his wares from the prying eyes of parents and professors. Draco smirked with satisfaction as the small, flat vial materialized as if from nothing out of the parchment to rest, tantalizingly, upon the table.

Draco picked it up carefully, hardly realizing how desperate he was for the small bottle's illicit contents. Knowing it wouldn't do to be caught, he made his way carefully to his room, dropping the parchment on his desk as he lay down on his canopied bed.

Uncomfortable, his skin tingling dangerously with expectation, Draco moved to stand in the middle of the room. He was determined, if only for this moment, to stand on his own two feet and meet the torment of his making, if only to forget about it for awhile.

Flicking off the small cork stopper, Draco tossed the potion into the back of his throat. He sunk into his desk chair as he felt the effects of the liquid rush to his heart before fleeing mercilessly through his veins.

His eyes closed to near-slits as the haze beckoned him like a comforting blanket, welcoming him into its embrace of ignorance. Yet as his defenses wore away, Draco was distantly bemused to find himself turning the discarded letter over and over in his hands.

He was envious of Zabini—so skilled as he was at remaining above the fray, drifting unseen and unconsidered like ethereal smoke in the dark of night. Draco had always worked to be quite the opposite, yearned for the glory and power that would make his father proud. Yet now that he'd had the chance at it—and had mucked it up quite royally—Draco felt he would prefer the security of a heavy purse and a disenchanted attitude.

In the honesty the potion elicited, Draco admitted as he never could in sobriety that he wanted nothing of the changes being wrought at the hands of his fellows in the halls of the Ministry and his former school, throughout the country and perhaps, one day, abroad. He loathed the brand upon his arm and what it meant for him. He hated… himself.

Draco searched for one last droplet of bliss in the empty vial, tossing his head back in a morose impression of laughter as the potion did its work. He would be powerless to its impenetrable grayness soon enough, and he welcomed the respite into forgetfulness and irrelevance.

For a few hours, at least, everything would be lost in nothingness—everything would be alright as he feared it would never truly be again.

* * *

**A/N: Perhaps an unusual turn, but the song came on and inspiration hit with this somewhat unlikely result… I expect this brand of revolution was not, after all, what Draco had thought it would be. And I couldn't see not exploring some of the darker characters, though I promise a lighter chapter next. In the meantime, please let me know what you thought!**


	9. I Want to Hold Your Hand

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_I Want to Hold Your Hand_

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Dean took the last of the pillows from Ron and Harry, shoving them in the small linen closet with a final heave. Their makeshift bedroom now returned to its normal appearance as a living room, the boys made to follow the pleasant smells wafting from Shell Cottage's kitchen. A clattering on the stairs, however, stopped them at the door.

They turned to find Hermione standing breathless on the stairwell. "Ron, Harry! Come up—I think we've found a—" she cut off abruptly, noticing Dean's presence. "Er… found something," she amended, rushing away again, Harry right on her heels. Ron smiled apologetically at Dean before following quickly after them, taking the stairs two at a time.

Dean watched them go with a sigh, deciding to bypass the kitchen and head for the garden instead. It was a gray day, the threat of a storm on the horizon.

Dean's feet followed a familiar path to the house elf, Dobby's, little grave. He'd grown to like this spot where the wind whipped almost viciously off the coast, enveloping him in a vacuum of sound and feeling. He sat gingerly on the grass, stretching his long legs out before him, and reached a hand to carefully brush the stray dirt from the simple headstone.

There, in that spot, he could almost not think of anything. Not think of how grateful he was to the elf in the ground beside him for saving his life. Not think of how strange it was to live in a proper house again after months on the run. Not think of how he hadn't acknowledged the probability of never seeing Hogwarts—much less his friends or his family or, really, anything familiar—again until he was presented with the oddity of sharing a room with Harry and Ron in walls made of shell rather than stone. Not think of how the most important member of their dormitory wasn't there anyway. Not think of how much he missed that friendship now…

Dean might have sat there for minutes or hours, thinking and not thinking as the wind blanketed him with blissful numbness.

"Dean…?" a light voice cut through the rising gale. Dean looked up to find Luna smiling absently at him, holding out a small parcel. "Are you hungry?"

Dean accepted her offer with a small thank you and began to eat his sandwich, as much to avoid being rude as to actually sate any real hunger.

"You're welcome," Luna replied. "It's lovely out here, I can see why you like it," she added after a moment, as close to something like hesitation as Dean had ever seen her.

"You can sit, if you like," Dean said, surprising even himself with his offer.

Luna smiled again, more genuinely this time, and settled herself next to him. She didn't say anything for awhile, for which Dean was very glad. They simply stared off at the cliffs and the ocean beyond in silence, and Dean wondered at her calming presence even as the storm clouds moved closer.

"On days like this, it's like the whole world has wrapped itself up in grief," she said suddenly, quietly. She looked at him for a moment, but before Dean even had a chance to respond she'd stood up, holding out her hand. He took it, standing as well, noting how small and warm it was in his before dropping it self-consciously.

"Bill mentioned earlier that they could use some more driftwood for the fire," she said with her characteristic airy brightness, all traces of reflective melancholy pushed away. "Shall we?"

"Sure," Dean answered, following her, a bemused smile flitting across his face.

By the time their arms were laden with the lengths of graying wood it was already starting to rain. They turned in the direction of the cottage, Luna chattering on about some creature her father had brought her on one of his trips. Dean welcomed the distraction even if he had no idea what she was talking about. He could just nod or make general noises of agreement every so often and she would continue on, filling the space between them with the melody of her voice.

Dean was surprised he'd never really noticed how pretty she was. Not in the obvious way that someone like Fleur was, maybe, but she had a certain way about her… Even with her pale skin and thin frame still over-accentuated by her captivity, there was a subtle grace underlying every movement, every word.

Dean shook himself, turning back to watch the path ahead. He couldn't start thinking like that—like _that_—about a girl, not now. Not in the middle of a bloody _war_.

They'd reached the house, entering the kitchen to find Harry and Fleur deep in conversation. Harry had an unreadable expression on his face as he looked at them, and Dean felt irrationally worried Harry might see through to what he had just been thinking. Dean silently thanked his dark coloring for hiding the flush creeping up his cheeks as he sent what he hoped was a non-committal shrug in Harry's direction as they passed.

Dean was sorry to see Mr. Ollivander go that evening—not so much for his own sake (Ollivander was something of an odd old man, after all), but for Luna's. She'd really grown rather attached to him, Dean could tell. But then, Dean could understand how a companionship of necessity, of survival, could turn a person into one of the most important things in your life.

Dinner itself started out as a somewhat subdued affair. Fleur was hardly touching her food, and even Ron was eating with less than half his usual gusto. Both kept watching the door when they thought no one was looking, waiting for Bill to come back. Luna and Hermione made a valiant effort at conversation—made all the more remarkable by the fact that Hermione usually couldn't resist arguing with one or another of Luna's more eccentric ideas. But tonight, they talked on about Nargles and Wrackspurts as if they were the most normal thing in the world.

The air seemed to flow properly in the room once Bill returned, as if everyone had let out a collectively held breath. Though the manner of Professor Lupin's arrival a short time later sucked the air back out again, it was quickly restored with added buoyancy at his announcement.

Dean had never seen Remus Lupin quite so happy, and he had to admit it was contagious. But he couldn't help but think with a pang of the first Ted, the Ted for whom this new baby was named and who should have held him in his arms but instead held only the life he had saved—Dean's.

Much later that night Dean found himself at the large sitting room window, staring out at the edge of the crescent moon just peeking from behind the slowly dissipating clouds.

"It's stopped raining," Luna whispered, appearing at his side.

Dean nodded. "Do you want to go for a walk?" he asked quickly, before he could talk himself out of it.

"That would be nice," she smiled, grabbing a cloak as she followed him outside.

"It was good to see Professor Lupin smiling like that, and with such good news," she said after they had been walking for awhile. "It really seemed to lift everyone's spirits."

On the contrary, Dean felt the heaviness in his chest threaten to suffocate him. "Ted was really looking forward to being a grandfather," he managed to say, looking carefully at the toes of his trainers.

Luna seemed to consider him for a moment. "I'm sure little Teddy would like to know that, one day."

Dean snorted. "If I live long enough to tell him."

"You don't think you will?" Luna asked.

"I don't know."

They'd come to a stop at the edge of the cliff. Dean could hear the water crashing endlessly against the rocks below them.

"We might die, it's true," Luna said after a moment. "But we can't plan for it—no real use, anyhow, planning, once you're dead. So we might as well plan to keep on living, don't you think?"

Dean found himself staring at her. She met his gaze levelly, her long blond tresses whipping gently around her face in the persistent breeze. Her honesty seemed to jar something in him, hit a discordant note of truth that made more sense to him than anything had in weeks. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn't seem to form the words. His fingers brushed against the back of her hand but he hastily withdrew them, crossing his arms as he returned his eyes to the distantly churning ocean.

Luna followed his gaze, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "You can if you want to, you know," she said quietly, still staring out at the horizon.

"What?" Dean responded, playing the fool.

She didn't respond, but simply held her hand out slightly, palm out.

Dean stared down at it, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he shook his head in wonderment. "Don't let a bloke get away with much, do you?" he asked with a grin.

"I think it may be a bad habit," she replied, returning his smile as she let her hand fall to her side.

They turned back to the sea, but this time, Dean took her small fingers in his, squeezing them slightly and feeling the reassuring pressure returned as he let the wind envelope them both.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading—please leave a review!**


	10. From Me to You

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

**Additionally, some of the below dialogue is borrowed from page 89 of the U.S. hardcover edition of the _Deathly Hallows_.**

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_From Me to You_

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Harry was just clattering down the stairs and into the kitchen as Ginny took the dinner plates from her mother. Seeing Harry unoccupied, Molly thrust the flatware into his empty hands. "Harry, be a dear and help Ginny set the table, would you?" she requested with a strained smile as she bustled past into the other room.

Ginny didn't miss the slightly pained expression flit across Harry's face in response, but he followed Ginny around the table without complaint. Much as she could see that it was frustrating him, part of Ginny was secretly glad her mother was conspiring to keep Harry, Ron and Hermione apart—particularly if it meant that Harry's being with Ginny was a more preferable arrangement. Ginny wondered if her mum would be so complacent if she knew the details of the previous spring.

Ginny smiled at the memory as she pulled the glasses from the cabinets, stealing another glance at Harry as she did so. His mind was elsewhere, she could see, and he seemed ready to burst with pent up energy. She didn't want him to leave any more than Molly did—she didn't want any of them to leave, to leave _her_. But she knew it was futile… and if that was so, then she just wanted him to talk to her again. Just _talk _to her, like they used to…

"I think Mum thinks that if she can stop the three of you getting together and planning, she'll be able to delay you leaving," Ginny whispered conspiratorially, before she could think better of it.

"And then what does she think's going to happen? Someone else might kill off Voldemort while she's holding us here making vol-au-vents?" Harry answered tersely under his breath.

And suddenly, Ginny's wishes for Harry's confidence were fulfilled in a manner that made such hopes seem foolish. She could feel the blood draining from her face, beating loudly past her ears as she struggled to take in what he had said. It was one thing to guess at it—to know _something_ was being planned—but to hear it confirmed so candidly was another thing altogether.

"So it's true?" she said at last, swallowing shallowly, "that's what you're trying to do?" She didn't understand how it could be possible—how even _they_ could hope to accomplish such a task.

"I—not—I was joking," Harry lied poorly, a horrified expression still marring his features.

Ginny felt as if a door had been slammed in her face. She didn't want to acknowledge that he hadn't meant to tell her—that he didn't want to reveal any more to her now than he had at Dumbledore's funeral. She didn't want to admit that if he'd been able to talk with Ron and Hermione more freely these past few days, he wouldn't have lowered his defenses so easily.

And yet, here they were, staring at each other—alone for the first time all summer—and all she wanted to do was snog him senseless.

Ginny didn't have the chance to either act on her impulses or talk herself out of them as her dad, Bill and Kingsley chose that time to arrive for dinner.

The kitchen was as crowded as ever, but for Ginny it was an unusually tense affair. Harry seemed exceedingly uncomfortable next to her, and she felt she had no choice but to follow his lead in this strange and elaborate game of not touching each other in any possible way.

When her mum had doled out the evening's assignments, Ginny watched as Ron sulked off to clean his room—something she was sure he had no intention of doing—and Harry followed her dad out to tend to the chickens. After clearing a few dishes from the table, Ginny and Hermione made their getaway as well.

"Mum's losing her touch," Ginny tried for levity as they headed for the stairs, "she already had us change the sheets yesterday."

"Right," Hermione agreed as she glanced further up the stairwell and back to Ginny with an apologetic smile. "So…"

"Go ahead," Ginny said with a sigh, though she managed a small smile in return.

Hermione frowned slightly, "are you sure you don't mind?"

"Positive," Ginny replied as they reached her bedroom door. Even if she might wish her mother success, Ginny couldn't bring herself to actively keep them all apart. She couldn't summon enough selfishness. Though she wasn't sure if knowing precisely what was at stake made that easier or harder to do…

Hermione smiled gratefully, continuing up a few steps before turning back. "Did you decide what to get Harry for his birthday tomorrow?" she asked.

Ginny shook her head, "nothing seems right."

Hermione quirked her mouth thoughtfully, "I don't think I'll be too long tonight—I'll help you think of something before bed, if nothing comes to you."

"Thanks," Ginny said, pushing her door open, unable to stand under the pity in Hermione's eyes any longer.

Ginny listened as her friend stole the rest of the way upstairs, closing her door firmly behind her. She flopped down on the bed unceremoniously, her feet trailing off the end. She could almost imagine that she could see straight up into the attic, where she was sure Harry would eventually find his friends, and the three would finally have the opportunity they had been waiting for.

It was difficult, in that moment, to fight off the feelings of uselessness and irrelevance that had been plaguing Ginny since the end of term. In the spring she had almost felt included, important in their little group… And now they were going away… her best friend, her closest brother, and _Harry_.

Harry… All she wanted was to help him. She wished more than ever that she was seventeen and could leave with them no matter what anyone said.

_But_, Ginny reminded herself bitterly, _he might not want you there_.

It hadn't just been her pride that had kept her from arguing with Harry when he'd told her he planned to leave. It wasn't purely respect for his sense of duty either, or a willingness to let him fight the good fight. No, it was fear too… Fear that she wasn't enough to keep him back. Fear that even if she asked him to stay, he would hold her off.

And then where would she be?

Ginny refused to be _that_ girl as much as she refused to be the one that blubbered and cried at every false step, at every shattered, elusive dream.

But she thought Harry still cared—she fancied she could still see it there in him… Even today, when he'd pushed all her worries into stark reality. _Especially _today…

And Ginny couldn't pretend she didn't care either. She wanted desperately to do something, _anything_ that would make a difference, that would _help_. Yet the only thing Harry had asked her to do—to let him go—that was the one thing she couldn't manage.

More than that, Ginny didn't _want _that to be what he needed from her. She didn't believe it—wouldn't believe it. At least, not entirely…

_He's going, whether you want him to or not_, Ginny thought sullenly as she settled further back into her bed.

Yet, if she had to let him go, she wasn't letting him do it empty-handed. She wouldn't break down, she wouldn't beg him to stay—that wasn't going to help either of them. And maybe the plan slowly forming in her mind wouldn't help either… maybe it would just make it that much harder.

But, Ginny reasoned, she had seen that look in Harry's eyes so many months ago and again in these last few days—and now that she knew precisely what he was planning, she was able to put a name to it: resignation. Harry needed to have something residing within him that gave him hope, as much as she needed to be the one to give it to him.

So, Ginny decided as she stared into the gathering darkness, she would give him one last gift—the only thing he might let her give, the only thing he might let her do to help him on his way.

And then that would be that.

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**A/N: Sorry for the delay—I've been suffering from a bit of writer's block of late. Hope you enjoyed, please leave a review!**


	11. Across the Universe

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_Across the Universe_

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Her baby.

He was there—she could see him, all of him—his pain, his fear… his sense of purpose.

She was so proud.

Though this might not be the first time she had wanted to be present in his life, Lily Potter honestly felt she had never wanted so fervently to be by her son's side.

And then something changed. Except nothing would ever change—not really. But maybe for a moment… for one blissful, tiny moment, she could just _be_.

Lily was conscious of moving, traveling so fast and yet not fast enough—swirling through a haze of light and sound and emotion. And it was miserable and it was ecstasy all at once. It killed her all over again that Harry would take this path so much sooner than he should, and yet she felt the calm born of certainty and no regret and knew he would be reassured.

He was so calm though, even now—how was he so calm?

But he was calling her—calling _them_—because he needed them more than he ever had. They were flying to him, slipping across the void, possessed of an incontrovertible energy.

She was aware of little more than James' fingers entwined in one hand, Sirius' firmly clutching her other. And then there was the unmistakable brush of Remus' touch at her shoulder and she could feel her tears spring anew and flow into nothingness.

And then, all of a sudden, it all became solid. They were there—_there_, as they should always have been, forevermore. Almost as they should have been, anyway. But even in the impermanence of that moment, it was enough.

Because he was in front of her, and she could comfort him. She couldn't wrap him up in her arms and never let go…

Really, she had to let him go a long time ago.

But they could give him strength, guidance. They could love him, without limit or barrier. And he wanted her, needed her with him, by him, where she had always hoped to be.

_With_ him.

Her baby.

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**A/N: So this is a little different, I know—and shorter than they have been. But when listening to this song it just had to be this subject, and didn't beg a lot of explanation for me. More than usual, I recommend listening to the song and or reading the lyrics—they just fit so perfectly in my mind. I hope you agree! **


	12. Let It Be

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

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_Let It Be_

* * *

When it's an overexcited neighbor that knocks on the door with a bottle of Muggle champagne, hooting that the war is over and that Voldemort is dead—_dead_—all Andromeda can do is sink slowly into a waiting chair.

The feeling of foreboding that's been waiting in the wings all night is now pouncing with a vengeance, because if this relative stranger is delivering such news and not her daughter, then… _Then…_

It's a full minute before Andromeda can make an excuse to the confused well-wisher and collect her grandson from his cot, her fingers almost shaking too much to wrap his blanket around him.

Moments later, as she clambers over the ruined castle gates, Andromeda is only dimly aware—and completely beyond caring—how ridiculous she must look running full tilt across the grounds with Teddy's pram racing along in front of her. Her heart has outpaced her speeding footfalls by now, and her beleaguered mind isn't far behind.

There are few people out in the early morning light, but Andromeda pays them little attention. She doesn't stop running until she's gained access to the entry hall, or at least what remains of it. Chunks of stone litter the ground and colored jewels are strewn everywhere, some stuck in dark puddles Andromeda does not want to consider further.

She spots a young man coming out of the Great Hall, but now that she's here she hardly knows what to ask. How can she possibly ask _this_?

"Excuse me," she clears her throat, startled at the high pitch of her voice, "do you know… know where…" she falters.

The boy, for she sees now he must be a student, sets his mouth in a grim line and points down a corridor.

Andromeda walks slowly now, unable to question the boy further but afraid of the certainty she saw in his eyes. The passage he indicated is strikingly bare, though it is crumbling slightly less than what she could see of the rest of the school. It seems to go on forever.

A man with graying hair emerges from a room on the left, not even bothering to hide his tears. Andromeda knows she must take his place—she hopes she is wrong, but deep down she knows.

Still, standing at the door, she can't bring herself to go in. She tries to reassure herself that they could be fine—_she_ could be fine, Andromeda has no proof of anything being wrong. Even if such platitudes have no weight in her heart, its enough to let her push open the door.

The sight that greets her makes her stomach churn and she closes her eyes against it. Swallowing, her feet seem to move of their own accord as her brain rebels futilely against them, insisting she need not know—she can remain in ignorance forever, surely. Yet she moves along the path before her, feeling guilty that she's allowing Teddy in his pram to lead the way, as if a shield from the reality that threatens to suffocate her.

It's hard not to register the cold and lifeless bodies stretching out on either side; some faces she recognizes, some she doesn't. But they aren't the ones she's searching for.

It's Remus that Andromeda sees first, and she feels her chin buckle precariously, her breath catch her throat. Knowing he never looked so peaceful in life is all the confirmation she needs that he isn't simply sleeping.

She has to keep moving, knows she must look beyond her son-in-law but she can't. She _can't_.

But sometimes eyes slip of their own volition…

_Nymphadora_.

Andromeda only knows she's hit the floor when the shock reverberates through her knees. Hot tears obscuring her vision, she crawls the rest of the way to her daughter's side, desperately clutching Dora's limp hand to her heart.

"_No_…" she whispers. "No, Dora… love, wake up, wake up!" she cries, voice breaking. "Don't go, please, _please_… don't leave me, pumpkin… little one, wake up…!"

Andromeda dissolves in sobs against her daughter's chest, her tears soaking the torn and stained robes. "No," she breathes, again and again. _No_.

She cries until there's nothing left in her, nothing left _to_ her. Just nothing. She raises her pounding head, tries to take a breath—but it only comes in shallow gasps. She blindly, instinctively, reaches for the only thing remaining—but he isn't there.

A new panic grips her as Andromeda turns her attention to the rest of the cavernous room, but her eyes soon find Teddy little more than a yard away. He's resting comfortably in the arms of a girl Andromeda doesn't recognize, his few tufts of hair a tranquil blue. The girl seems to notice her in the same moment, her eyes widening.

"I'm—I'm sorry," the girl stutters. "I heard him crying, and you weren't—you didn't seem…" she trails off as Andromeda doesn't make a move to respond. "I'm sorry," she says again, depositing Teddy amongst his blankets and walking swiftly away.

Andromeda doesn't watch her go—she can't wrench her eyes away from the still form in front of her again. The girl's footsteps are distant when she finally finds her voice.

"What's your name?" Andromeda asks quietly, her throat hoarse.

The footfalls stop. "Astoria… Astoria Greengrass," she replies, seemingly surprised, as Andromeda finally turns to look at her.

"Greengrass…" Andromeda says, out of recognition of the name, partly, but also out of hardly knowing what else to say. She doesn't really know why she stopped the girl—Astoria—from going. She should want nothing else but to be alone right now. But alone was so daunting, so… final. "I'm Andromeda—"

"Tonks," Astoria finished, stealing closer, "I know."

Andromeda raised an eyebrow.

Astoria looked down, her cheeks flushing. "My Mum used to tell me and Daph—" her voice caught, "me and my sister about you."

"She did?" Andromeda asked mutedly.

"She remembered you from school…" Astoria explained. "I think she was always… envious of you."

"Why?" Andromeda balked, her voice small.

"For getting away," Astoria whispered, her eyes plaintively searching Andromeda's. "My sister always scoffed, but maybe… I don't know, maybe she was as hopeful as I was… that there was something better." Her eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, to a far corner of the room. "Now I'll never know what she chose," she added softly, turning back to Andromeda.

There was a look in Astoria's face that arrested Andromeda, some reflection of wisdom or understanding she couldn't quite place. Andromeda took in the wrinkled edges of the girl's robes, her worried hands. She couldn't be more than fifteen, but her eyes—red-rimmed and shadowed—they had the look of someone much older.

"I'm very sorry for your losses, Mrs. Tonks," Astoria said at last into the gaping silence as she made to leave once more.

Andromeda bit her lip, feeling the despair she barely held off threatening to engulf her. "And I'm sorry for yours," she managed to say, honestly.

Astoria stopped mid-breath, turning around, lifting her chin slightly. "I should never have left," she said, eyes shining. "I shouldn't have listened when she told me to go home, to get away."

"Of course you should have," Andromeda affirmed, wishing she had convinced Dora to do the same.

Astoria shook her head. "Your daughter was very brave, Mrs. Tonks. She chose the right thing, the right side—because _you_ did, before her."

Andromeda's hand rose to her mouth in a useless attempt to stifle a fresh cry as she sank back onto her heels.

Astoria attempted a sad smile, tears spilling onto her own cheeks as she turned again to go. This time, Andromeda didn't stop her.

A shaft of morning light broke through the jagged remnants of stained glass still lining the high windows, glinting brightly off of the little pram beside her. Andromeda tried for a steadying breath as she reached out to draw her grandson into her arms, rocking him as gently as her shaking body would allow.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, please let me know what you thought!**


	13. Hold Me Tight

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

* * *

_Hold Me Tight_

* * *

Lee set the pot on the stove heavily, wiping his hands on a rag as he jogged to the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" he called. "Keep your robes on!"

He stopped abruptly as he reached the entryway—cooking had entirely taken his mind off of his relative seclusion and the dangers that lay out of doors. Cursing himself for making such a racket, he warily drew his wand. "Who is it…?" he asked, trying for a firm tone.

"Alicia," came the voice on the other side of the door.

Lee felt his shoulders relax ever so slightly, but kept his wand raised. "What did you call me when I stole your broomstick in first year?"

Lee thought he could detect a small smile in Alicia's voice as she answered. "An arrogant, worm-headed git," she replied promptly.

Lee swung open the door, a grin on his face at the memory. His face fell, however, as soon as he took in her appearance. Alicia looked… _haggard_—not a word he would typically use to describe her, but it was the only one that seemed to fit. He quickly ushered her inside and out of the blustery April wind, placing her on the small sofa and shooting his wand at the tea kettle as he went.

As soon as Alicia had sunk into the cushions, her eyes drifting closed gratefully, Lee was in the kitchen readying two steaming mugs. It had become a more and more frequent habit for Alicia to show up unannounced at his flat—and he'd been known to do the same to her. At first, it was on the really bad days. Yet Lee had noticed that the good days had now become equally justifiable reasons for a visit. But Lee could tell that this day was certainly one of the bad variety—and on such days, tea was most definitely required.

"What happened?" he asked gently as he settled next to her, handing her the warm cup.

Alicia blew out a deep sigh. "We had a little boy come into the office today," she began slowly, staring into the amber liquid.

Lee nodded—Alicia's worst days usually had something to do with work. "Was he…?"

"Another orphan, yes," Alicia bit off the word. "His whole family was killed in a Death Eater attack. Just a little afternoon diversion for them," she added, still not meeting his eyes.

Lee swallowed hard, his chest constricting. "Did you get him somewhere safe?"

"For now…" Alicia answered miserably. "The Ministry's grip is already so tight, Lara doesn't know how much longer we'll be able to help the ones that really need it."

"I'm sorry," Lee said, not knowing what else he _could_ say. He knew how much Alicia's job meant to her—and how much it meant to the people she helped.

"He saw the whole thing happen…" Alicia forced herself to continue. "The look on his face, I can't get it out of my head. He was only six years old, Lee," she almost whispered, finally meeting his gaze. The anguish he saw in her eyes arrested the breath in his lungs.

"Hey…" he said quietly, reaching out to brush a thumb across her cheek. "At least he had you there with him, eh? You're quite good at making people feel better… I should know."

Alicia leaned her head into his hand with the ghost of a smile—and then she was crashing her lips onto his. As Lee lost himself in the haze of her kisses, he noted that this was becoming a more and more regular occurrence as well—only slightly more often on the bad days as the good…

* * *

Some time later, Lee was rolling contentedly onto his back, breathing heavily.

"When did we make it to the bed…?" Alicia asked, with a husky chuckle.

"Somewhere between the hallway and the desk," Lee answered cheekily.

"Maybe we should've gotten you onto the pitch, Jordan, you've got some moves…" Alicia teased, twisting the sheets around her as she turned to her side.

Lee smiled slightly, allowing his eyes to search her face. He felt his chest swell as he looked at her—she'd never looked more beautiful with the adorable little smirk on her face. And yet…

"What are we doing?" he asked seriously, staring at the ceiling.

"Well if I still have to explain it to you…" Alicia answered quickly, a laugh playing on her lips.

Lee forced a smile. He could accept her humor, let his question slip by… try to make the tightness in his chest go away on his own. But he needed to know.

"That's not what I mean…" Lee replied carefully, turning to face her.

"Lee…" Alicia began, flopping onto her back, "let's not do this…"

"Why not?" Lee frowned. "We can't just keep doing… _this_," he gestured, "whenever we feel like it."

Alicia raised an eyebrow. "Hasn't stopped us so far…"

"And not that I don't enjoy it," Lee tried to bring that smirk back, "but someone's going to get hurt if we just keep… falling into each other without… without…" he faltered, not knowing quite how to continue.

"Why do we have to _define_ everything?" Alicia asked, meeting his gaze. "Why can't we just have tonight, have every other night… just have each other?"

Lee stared at her, trying in vain to read the meaning behind her expression.

"We don't have to be alone," she went on quietly, linking his fingers tentatively in her own. "I don't want to be alone…"

Lee felt a little part of him break at her words, and he suddenly felt somewhat ashamed for putting her through this—life had become complicated enough as it was. And yet, it was those complications that sent the ever-present tendril of worry crawling up his spine. Everything outside his room, outside his little flat—it was getting more and more frightening by the minute.

Looking at her then, feeling her hand in his, Lee knew he didn't want to be alone either—but with so much uncertainty in their lives, he didn't want to lose her without her knowing how much he cared. But if he couldn't properly tell her, he would just have to settle for showing her, for now.

"Okay…" he said at last, squeezing her fingers softly.

"Okay?" she repeated hesitantly.

"Okay," Lee said again, drawing her to him in a tight embrace. She kissed his temple lightly, settling into his arms.

It wasn't long before they'd fallen asleep—together.

* * *

**A/N: There will be a bit more to their story later, but as you can tell I'm not doing much in the way of chronology for this story… I hope it's not too distracting! Anyhow, thanks for reading, please leave a review!**


	14. Hello, Goodbye

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

* * *

_Hello, Goodbye_

_

* * *

_

It was oddly chilly for the summer as the low, early morning mist clung around the Burrow. Ron stared out into it, shifting his weight on the crumbling stone wall as he tried futilely to see more than a few feet down the road.

"Ron?" Molly's voice issued from the house. "Ron?" she said again as she drew up behind him. "Don't you want breakfast, dear?"

Ron looked longingly back in the general direction of the kitchen, imagining he could smell the delicious scents of his Mum's bacon and beans. "Hermione'll be here in a mo', so…"

Molly's brow knitted slightly. "Alright, then," she assented and bustled back towards the house.

Ron turned back to the road, but was startled as something hit the back of his head. He had to smile, though, when he turned to find a piece of toast floating in midair. Munching into it thoughtfully, Ron returned to his vigil.

He was rewarded for his patience within minutes, as a pop signaled an arrival in the lane. Ron hopped off the wall, remembering at the last minute to reach for his wand—just in case. Hermione emerged from the fog, levitating her trunk in front of her. She let it drop to the ground when she saw him, smiling—even though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Usually Hermione's visits began with an eager hop and a skip into a fierce hug by way of greeting. But this year…

"Right, then, security question," Ron cleared his throat.

"Right," Hermione nodded expectantly.

"Erm…" Ron wracked his brain, dimly recognizing he should probably have these questions ready. "You once told me I had the emotional range of a…" he trailed off.

"A teaspoon," Hermione answered quickly, blushing slightly.

Ron grinned, stowing his wand in his pocket as Hermione walked forward. And though her approach might be more subdued, her hug was no less tight.

"Were you waiting out here for me?" she asked quietly.

"Hermione!" Ginny called from behind them before Ron could answer. Hermione's usual demeanor was on in a snap as the two girls rocked back and forth excitedly.

Ron shook his head, dragging Hermione's trunk behind him as he followed the girls inside.

* * *

"Well if that's the way you feel about it, _Ronald_!" Hermione spat as she stormed out of the attic bedroom and down the stairs, nearly running into Ginny as she stormed past her into the younger girl's room.

Ron followed after the bushy curls hurriedly, catching Ginny flinch as the door slammed in her face.

"Well," Fred's voice rang out from a lower landing as he leaned against his door frame with barely concealed mirth. "Two hours, Ron," he teased, making a show of checking his watch, "that has to be some kind of record."

"Oh, shut it," Ron growled.

"What did you do?" Ginny asked, eyebrows raised.

Ron glared at her, annoyed at the presumption that it was _always_ him that mucked up—even if it usually was… "I didn't _do_ anything!"

Ginny opened her mouth to retort but Hermione beat her to it. "That's just the problem, isn't it?" she cried as she flung the door open and pushed past the siblings and further down the stairs. "You didn't _do_ anything! Honestly!"

Ron chased after her, shooting another glare at Fred as he went.

"Hermione!" Ron called as she burst out into the paddock. "Hermione, slow down!"

Hermione spun around, eyes narrowed. "Why do we argue all the time?"

Ron stopped short as he caught up with her, "I'm—wha… what?"

"We can't go half a day without a row! What are we going to do this year, with Harry—"

"Oh, _Harry_ again," Ron rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Harry," Hermione responded tartly, "or have you forgotten who we're doing this for?"

"Of course I haven't, I—"

"Well then, you'd do well to remember he has enough on his plate without the two of us bickering constantly."

"It never seemed to bother him before…" Ron muttered.

Hermione's jaw slackened slightly before she huffed, turning away as she crossed her arms.

Ron sighed, running a hand through his fringe. "You know, Harry may be my best mate, but I'd started to rather look forward to the part of the summer before he got here…" he said quietly.

Hermione didn't say anything for a moment, still turned away from him. "Me too," she said at last.

"So can't it just be like that, for a minute or two?" Ron lifted a corner of his mouth hopefully.

When Hermione turned back, he was glad to see her expression had softened somewhat. "How can we? This summer isn't like the others… everything's changed."

Ron nodded—the memory of Dumbledore's funeral was still much too fresh in his mind. "All the more reason to enjoy it before everything goes bloody nuts."

"But we have to plan!' Hermione exclaimed, voice rising again. "We've wasted a whole month not being able to say anything by letter and I can't just sit here and pretend like everything's just peachy when there's so much to do and no one to help us!"

"Hermione," Ron responded, feeling his ears redden again, "you have to calm down."

"And we're just going to start arguing again," Hermione went on, ignoring him, "and I'm—"

"_Hermione_," Ron tried again, grabbing both of her shoulders. She stopped talking then, though her chest still rose and fell rapidly. "Did you ever think that maybe our arguing is a good thing? Sort of, I dunno… gets everything out in the open."

Hermione frowned. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," she scoffed.

"Is it? Because if you'd stop to think you'd realize we don't _always_ argue—and when it comes to the big things, the really important things, we disagree much less than you seem to think."

A beat passed. Hermione's breathing was almost normal by then, but she hadn't looked away. "I'm scared," she whispered.

Ron considered putting on a false smile, telling her there was nothing to be frightened of—they'd protect her and all that. But looking into her face it didn't seem right. "Me too," he said at last.

Hermione smiled sadly, pulling away and plopping down into the dewy grass. Ron joined her after a moment, folding his long legs in front of him.

"When did it get so hard?" she asked into the lingering mist.

"Hard? And here I thought this was easy," Ron grinned.

Hermione let out a small chuckle, knocking his shoulder lightly with her own. "I suppose I could try to take a breath every once in awhile."

"And I could try to compromise a bit more, eh?" Ron allowed. Hermione raised an eyebrow with a small grin. "And," Ron added, "I promise, we can look through all of those books you brought this afternoon."

Hermione's smile widened. "Thanks," she said softly.

"Welcome," Ron answered.

And they passed the rest of the morning in a companionable silence, until the sun had burnt away the rest of the fog.

* * *

**A/N: Apologies for the delay! With this song, I couldn't resist a little Ron and Hermione… I hope you enjoyed!**


	15. For No One

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

* * *

_For No One_

_

* * *

_

"Michael? Michael, are you even listening to me?"

It was Michael when she was serious, Mikey when she wanted to be cute.

It hadn't been Mikey in awhile, though… not that he was complaining—he always sort of hated the nickname. But he liked her, so he just called her C's and said it was endearing.

"I'm listening," Michael answered, containing the sigh. He _was_ listening to her waffling and her platitudes _and_ her ever-increasing sniffles with a growing sense of inevitability. She was breaking it off with him, he knew… and it hurt, in a distant sort of way. But he wouldn't stop her.

"I just don't think…" Cho paused, clutching absently at the frilly doily that served as her napkin (because of course Cho brought him to Madam Puddifoot's to do this). "I don't see how we can keep on like this. It's too," she paused again, breathing shakily, "it's too hard."

"I understand," Michael said evenly. He did, really—it wasn't working between them and hadn't been for some time. Maybe once it had been great—it was new and exciting and everything that it should be.

Once.

Now that she was out of school they rarely saw each other and the ink on her letters was growing more and more distorted by telling droplets of saltwater. Yet even before that he had felt their relationship slipping away in favor of a familiar pattern of Cho hiding a tear-stained face as Michael tried helplessly to comfort her. More than a few times he had ignored the worn picture of Cedric Diggory that she still kept carefully folded under her mattress.

Perhaps he imagined it, but Michael had to wonder when he caught her staring a bit too long, a bit too intently at the pictures of Harry Potter in the _Prophet _as well...

But her parents had fled the country and most of her friends had followed suit. Though they had all begged her to come along, get out of England at least, Cho had refused. She said she wanted to fight, to help—and Michael hoped that was true… Not that he didn't want her safe, that wasn't it at all. But the alternative… he prayed to Rowena that she hadn't been staying for him.

She was stuck somewhere—unable to be _present_, with him. Maybe it was his fault somehow—he should be more caring, more patient, more representative of a future to move towards instead of remaining in the past, the unchangeable.

Padma said Cho had abandonment issues and Michael trusted Padma's judgment. So no matter how difficult or wearing it became to be the boyfriend to Cho he thought he should be, Michael refused to be the next person to leave her.

And now here she was, giving him an out. He couldn't quite bring himself to argue…

"I'm sorry it's turned out like this," he said, genuinely meaning the words. "I'm honestly not sure how it did."

Cho nodded, her eyes shifting towards the door. Feeling his shoulders slump, Michael threw a few coins on the table and led her outside.

"I'm sorry, too," Cho whispered as they came to a stop in the lane.

Her lip was quivering again as she raised her head to meet his gaze. Michael felt his chest constrict at the look in her eyes, hating that she was so lost and he couldn't help her. He wondered again if he was abandoning her, if he was making a mistake by letting her go—but somewhere he knew that her pain wasn't for him, not really.

"Hey…" he said at last, wrapping his arms around her small form. "You're going to be fine, you know."

She nodded into his chest before pulling back. "Aren't I supposed to be the one consoling you?" she said with a wry smile through her tears. Michael grinned sadly in response—that was always the way, wasn't it? "Well," she went on, "goodbye, Mikey." She stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek lightly, stepping back and Apparating away before the sensation had entirely faded.

Michael stared at the place she had been, feeling the emptiness wash over him. He wasn't sure he believed that she was leaving him for good, that she wouldn't find herself writing another letter, showing up at the next Hogsmeade weekend. It wasn't that he flattered himself the only bloke worth her time, but that was just how she was—she'd put on a smile and call him Mikey and pretend it didn't matter, nothing had to change.

Michael frankly didn't know what he'd do when that happened. But for now… for now he'd walk away.

So he headed to the main road and back to the castle, ignoring the warmth in the Three Broomsticks' windows and the three friends he'd probably find there. Instead he let the cool October wind whip around him, let the chill numb his face and hands.

As he grew closer to the school, his gaze caught on the Quidditch pitch and a lone flier careening around the goal posts. Curious, Michael changed his course as if pulled by an inexplicable energy.

Emerging from under the stands, Michael realized with a start that the person flying about with an almost frenetic abandon was none other than Ginny Weasley. Despite the somewhat dangerous moves she attempted, he couldn't help but admire her control and precision. He stood there, unable to steal himself away. He watched her for several minutes before she seemed to notice him, zooming toward the ground immediately.

"Oh," she said, seemingly startled as she recognized her observer and stowing the wand she had apparently drawn in midair. "Corner," she added flatly. "What are you doing here?"

"I…" Michael began hesitantly, "I don't know, really…" Dimly he recognized this was the most that they'd said to each other in ages—passing in the halls or polite exchanges in DA meetings were always brief.

Ginny raised an eyebrow in response. Michael was struck by the raw emotion written on her face. Though her voice betrayed no particular sentiment, he didn't think her cheeks were red from the wind alone.

Where Cho was weepy, Ginny was all steely resolve. Yet even when she hid her true feelings away, Ginny was a spark of emotional energy. This year, though, she was different… Even if no one else did, Michael noticed as her eyes lost their usual lively passion in favor of a cold, almost mercilessly challenging stare. He had considered asking Padma if she knew where Ginny had left things with Harry, but he didn't need to—it was obvious to him that she was feeling his absence whether she would admit it or not. And Michael knew from the time they had spent together how important Ginny's family and friends were to her, so to have Ron and Hermione gone as well, particularly as life in the school grew shoddier by the day…

"Well?" Ginny broke the silence that had stretched out between them. "If you didn't need anything…" and she turned, preparing to kick off of the cold, hard ground.

"Cho broke up with me," Michael blurted suddenly. He wasn't sure why he had said it—he hoped she didn't think he was telling her because it was _her_, or because he expected anything. He didn't. Though he had often wondered at the oddly parallel routes his and Harry's love-lives had taken—and had occasionally mused that he, himself, may have taken the wrong direction on that line—he knew his chance with Ginny was long since passed. It hadn't worked for them any more than he and Cho seemed to…

He tried to fix all of this clearly on his face as Ginny turned back toward him, gaze calculating. "Grab a broom," she said finally, gesturing to the open closet before propelling herself into the air.

Michael chose a broom quickly and joined her in the air, chasing her down the pitch. She was a better flier than him, but he kept up with her for the better part of an hour as they dived within an inch of the dirt or ran each other down, breaking off a mere second before head-on collision.

When they finally landed on solid earth again, Michael was breathing heavily. "That felt _wicked_," he said, unable to hide a wide grin.

"Yes it did," Ginny replied, a twitch at the corner of her mouth. She stood, leaning her chin on her broom handle as Michael replaced the Cleansweep he had been using. "I'm sorry about Cho," she added quietly as he walked back towards her. He noted that she hadn't yet replaced the façade she'd been wearing lately.

"Me too, but…" he shrugged, unable to articulate the complex web of doubts and odd certainties he felt crowding his head. "You know," he said, unsure as to what instinct was compelling him, "I never properly apologized for what a first-class git I was to _you_… towards the end."

Ginny bit her lip thoughtfully and for a moment Michael worried that he'd overstepped, that he read her wrong—it was too much to expect to pick up as if months of non-interaction where nothing at all. But as always, she managed to surprise him. "I could have done a bit better, myself," she said with a crooked grin.

Michael smiled at that—it was enough, no need to struggle for blame at this point, after all. Sometimes time really was enough to heal an old wound, and Michael knew if Ginny ever let herself shed a few tears they weren't going to be for him.

"Do you think," he hesitated, shuffling his feet for a moment before deciding Ginny always preferred a direct course of action. Besides, when you had next to nothing, what was there to lose? "Do you think we could… be friends again?" Though he may not think it a good idea to date her again, he still missed her being a part of his life.

"I'd like that," Ginny agreed. Though her mouth turned upward, Michael wasn't sure he was glad to be privy to the sadness in her countenance any more than the carefully composed mask she wore for the world.

As if by mutual consent they turned to head toward the castle, enjoying a companionable silence.

"So," Michael said, finding it easier than he imagined to shift into the playful exchanges that used to characterize their relationship—platonic or otherwise. "What are we going to do with our rediscovered friendship?"

Ginny grinned but walked a few paces before turning to him conspiratorially, betraying for a brief moment the spirited intensity she had been bottling away. "Let's be _reckless_."

Her dark eyes sparkled, almost in a challenge, but there was something there reminding him of the darkness they were approaching as they came ever nearer to Hogwarts. And things were only going to get worse. Michael found himself returning her gaze with the same infectious fervor. "That," he answered firmly, "I can do."

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this latest foray into the lives of the Ravenclaws. I have to thank Dodger Gilmore for the inspiration her explorations of these characters has provided.**

**Please let me know what you thought!**


	16. Love You To

**Disclaimer: Of course, neither Harry Potter nor the Beatles' work belongs to me… but I do so enjoy them both.**

* * *

_Love You To_

_

* * *

_

"I'm sorry, you want me to do _what_?" Oliver sputtered, trying to keep his mouth from dropping open.

"Anya Zukova, Karkaroff's niece. Find out if she knows anything."

"And just how d'you expect me to do that?" Oliver retorted as he took the proffered photograph. _Pretty girl_... he thought absently.

"Oh, come on Wood—I think you know. And you're not pretending you don't have the skills or the practice." Oliver simply raised an eyebrow. "Oliver, you said you wanted to help—this is what we need you to do."

"I'm not sure if I should be insulted or flattered," Oliver frowned, considering. "Alright, fine, I'll... I'll do my best."

"Good man! She's in the Minister's box. Now go save a few goals, eh?"

Oliver started, having almost forgotten he had been about to head onto the pitch for what was sure to be a harrowing match. "Right, yea," he said distractedly, slipping the photo into his robes as he left the changing room. He chanced one look back at the arch grin of Fred Weasley before joining his teammates to the sound of ten thousand raucous cheers.

* * *

The euphoria of a hard-won victory was enough of an excuse to fly confidently from the post-match huddle directly to the appropriate box and address this Anya Zukova while her escorts were busy schmoozing with the Ministry officials.

When Oliver asked her to join him at the team's after-party, she fixed him with a clear, appraising stare. Yet he thought he detected a bemused smile there before she climbed deftly onto his broom without so much as a word.

"Thank you for rescuing me from them," she whispered as he flew them to the snow-covered ground, so softly he thought he might have imagined it.

* * *

Oliver was pleasantly surprised to find that Anya was a talented dancer, and they kept pace with each other on the crowded floor of the club. You could learn a lot about a person when you danced with them, he had found. Unable to talk over the sound of pounding beats and energy-filled music, everything was left to movement and gesture—and Oliver made a living anticipating and reading people based on even the slightest of hints in their physical actions and maneuvers.

Most people were surprised to find that Oliver danced so much or so well—even the most coordinated Quidditch players didn't always hold up on solid ground. Yet he attacked it with the same intensity he pursued a match.

Besides, moving to the rhythm of the heavy Muggle tracks was the closest Oliver came to living out the increasingly frenetic restlessness that consumed him off the pitch. As the world got more bleak and treacherous around him Oliver had been feeling more and more lost, and that energy only grew less restrained with time.

When he'd told Fred and George that he was tired of sitting around, that he wanted to _do_ something to fight the rising tide, they'd smirked that mischievous smirk of theirs and set quill to parchment immediately. Though, truth be told, dancing with a beautiful girl wasn't exactly what Oliver had expected…

The air was growing thick with heat as Anya moved her hips against his. The slip of a smile and half-lidded eyes were intoxicating.

* * *

Oliver wasn't exactly a stranger to having girls at his flat, though not usually ones with such nefarious connections. Quidditch players had their fair share of groupies, as it was, and generally those that ended up in his bed meant little more to him than he did to them. He was just another notch in their broomsticks—another player, another team to cross off the list.

Oliver kept himself guarded most of the time. It wasn't too hard when he was dedicated to the game—and even easier now that life seemed more and more unpredictable. Detachment was survival. Nevertheless, he knew enough about himself that if he allowed it, he could fall hard and fast…

"Oliver, are you alright?" Anya questioned in that low, lilted accent. There was that little smile again… Dangerous, definitely dangerous…

"Sure, yea," he tried to answer nonchalantly as he headed into the kitchen to pour them a finger of firewhiskey. Slowly, all of the usual patterns were filling him with guilt. It was one thing to mess about with a girl who knew exactly what she was getting into—even if he never felt entirely great about it. Fooling this girl with a hidden agenda—even one that might save lives—was something else entirely.

Anya took the glass he offered her and knocked back the liquid in one swift motion. Oliver's eyes widened appreciatively. "Cheers," he shook his head, taking a sip that burned its way down his throat.

"Sorry," she cast her eyes downward, "I suppose we do things differently at home."

"And what is home like?" Oliver asked quietly.

Anya paused to meet his eyes calculatingly. "Dark," she intoned softly, taking a step toward him and placing his glass next to hers on the counter.

Oliver could feel his heart rate increase as she ran her finger around the rim of the glass, all the while looking at him intently. He thought he could sense something there—something strong, but somehow just as lost as he felt. A figure being buffeted mercilessly from all sides. There was _something_…

With a rush of melancholy understanding, Oliver reached forward, gently pushing the silken strap of her chemise from her shoulder.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry it's been so long—I've been quite busy, but it felt like high time to put a little something out there. **

**Sorry, too, that this is sort of an odd one to come back on—I hope it's still enjoyable. I'm not sure it translates, but it was an interesting side for me to explore. Please let me know what you thought!**


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